The First Crack
by MrSpiderlegs
Summary: A brief purview into the lives of wee!Mycroft and Sherlock. Features light references to Johnlock and Mystrade. Rated 'T' because one of Siger Holmes' business partners is a creepy creeperson who creeps. NOT HOLMESCEST I SWEAR.


John and Sherlock were seated in the parlour of Mycroft's posh downtown flat. Well, John was seated. Sherlock was prowling around, making snide comments about his brother's taste in décor and literature. Mycroft himself was making tea in the kitchen with Greg, who was cooking something difficult and French.

A year after The Fall, Sherlock broke into this very flat and nearly gave his brother a heart attack. With Mycroft's help, though he was loathe to ask for it, he was able to destroy the last of Moriarty's web of crime. After the last sniper died mysteriously, Sherlock revealed himself to John. The reunion featured many swears and violence and tears, and, eventually, kisses and a shag or two. Or ten. Diclosing such information would be indelicate, so, changing the subject.

As a result of Sherlock's work with Mycroft, the rift between them began to close. Sherlock was glad for the opportunity to speak French, German, and Russian to someone who would understand, and Mycroft was just pleased at the lack of fat jokes. The bi-monthly meeting for tea and a chat was something John had established about eighteen months after Sherlock's return, alternating to meet at either 221B or Mycroft's flat. The past few months, Lestrade had started to join them, having become fast friends with the slightly less acerbic Holmes.

John had noted, amused, that Greg's favourite beer now had a home in Mycroft's ridiculously expensive fridge.

It had been a little weird at first, getting to know Mycroft in a setting that didn't creep him the fuck out. The man was much different in his home, as opposed to an abandoned warehouse. It made sense, John supposed. It just figured that Mycroft would separate his home and work lives so thoroughly.

Well, not _that _thoroughly. There were a few individuals loitering around the lobby of the apartment building whom John was certain were actually some sort of armed guard.

He had become very familiar with Mycroft's parlour/living room/den over the past year or so, spending a Sunday with the man every month or so, and more recently joining Greg there to watch telly and drink beer and eat posh snacks. (Mycroft's confusion after watching a football game had been very amusing to witness.) That particular Sunday, however, there was something new. In a corner near the desk, there were three cardboard boxes. John figured that if Mycroft didn't want anyone to see them he'd have put them somewhere secret, and decided to snoop a little.

Upon closer inspection, he noticed there was writing on the boxes. Very tiny, very cramped writing.

_Violet Holmes: Photograph Albums_

Huh.

Opening the box on the top of the pile, he pulled out the first book he saw. Flipping it open, he saw more of the cramped writing on the inside cover

_Holmes Family, 1985_

Grinning, he turned his head to look at the picture on the first page. A family portrait. A diminutive woman with curly, greying hair stood tucked under the arm of a truly imposing adult man, with severe hawk-like eyes that glared at John from within the photograph. There were three boys standing around them. One, the oldest, was tall and smarmy looking. John supposed that most would call him handsome, but John couldn't help but see the nasty look the boy was giving his sibling. Mycroft. Well, wasn't that something. John noted with a twinge of guilt that Mycroft was truly an ugly child. He supposed that part of that could be attributed to the harsh grip his father had on his shoulder, the poor boy looked utterly miserable. Clutching his trouser leg was a diminutive Sherlock Holmes. John let out a bark of laughter. Sherlock was staring at the camera with an irritated glare that he usually saved for people even John would call idiotic.

He flipped through the album, smiling at the fact that in most of them, Sherlock was hanging off of Mycroft. As he got closer to the middle of the book, though, he noticed that Sherlock was no longer standing so close to his older brother, opting to stand alone or with his mother. Mycroft looked even more miserable in these photographs. On that note, there were a surprisingly small amount of pictures with Mycroft in them. John felt a bit of anger at that, believing (correctly) that Violet Holmes had not wanted to call attention to her rather homely second child.

Someone cleared their throat behind John. John twisted around. Mycroft was looking at him with a raised brow and holding a cup of tea in each hand. John grinned sheepishly and apologized quietly, taking one of the cups. Before Mycroft coud say anything, John took a sip and grimaced at the amount of sugar in the tea. Mycroft gave a small smile.

"That one is Sherlock's." John looked up at him, surprised. Mycroft's smile widened.

"It's a trick the housekeeper and I used. As a child, Sherlock was a very finicky eater - "

"Was?" John interrupted with an amused grin. Mycroft shrugged delicately.

"Well, is. The only things he would eat without fuss were sweets. So everything he ate as a child had a liberal dose of sugar." Switching the cup in John's hand for the one in his own, Mycroft wandered off to find Sherlock and force tea upon him. John wondered if such a trick would still work on Sherlock. Mycroft returned with Sherlock, the latter holding his tea and sniping at his brother, who gave as good as he got. John turned back to the photo album. Sherlock peered over his shorter lover's shoulder and made a noise of distaste.

"Mycroft, why do you have Mummy's old photographs?" He paused. "She's not dead. Is she?" Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"No, Sherlock, she isn't dead. I'd have told you. She asked me to go through some old things of hers."

"So she's dying." Sherlock didn't sound very upset at that, which confused John. Mycroft sighed.

"Well _she _certainly thinks so." He muttered. Sherlock gave an amused snort. John decided that now was as good a time as any to ask the brothers why, exactly, Sherlock was so averse to Mycroft's presence in some of the photographs. So he did.

Sherlock and Mycroft shared a somber look.

* * *

When Sherlock was five years old, Mummy and Father threw a very, _very_ big dinner party. Several of Father's old friends from Cambridge were there, with their wives and children, as well as Mummy's friends from school and work, before she quit to be Father's wife.

Sherlock did not enjoy it when Mummy and Father threw parties. He would be dragged away from his latest experiment or book or concerto, his face would be scrubbed raw and pink, and he would be stuffed into a scratchy suit. Sometimes Lizzie would even comb his hair back, and Sherlock hated it. If hair was meant to grow to point to the back of his skull, it would.

His only consolation was that Mycroft hated the paries even more than Sherlock did. Sherlock knew that Mycroft hated being dressed up, because dressing up was supposed to make you pretty and Mycroft was never pretty, even as a baby. He knew that Mycroft hated it when Father would parade Sherrinford around and his friends would congratulate him, and Mummy would pull Sherlock onto her lap and her friends would coo at him. Nobody cooed at or congratulated Mycroft. Sherlock didn't know why this bothered his brother, but he did know that he had something Mycroft did not. He liked that.

The evening of the very very big dinner party was a cool one in April. It had been raining but it stopped around the beginning of the afternoon. Sherlock had enjoyed the rain, and had jumped around in puddles and analyzed the different creepy crawlies that also enjoyed the rain. Lizzie had screamed blue bloody murder when he tried to bring some worms in, or maybe it was because he was covered in mud, he wasn't sure. Then she had put him in the bath and made Mycroft scrub behind Sherlock's ears because she had to go make sure dinner was being prepared. Mycroft would sing silly bath songs that made bath time less horrible, and always wrapped Sherlock up in the fluffiest towels to dry him off. When Mycroft was in charge of getting Sherlock dressed, too, he would pick out the least scratchy suit and the softest underclothes and the shiniest shoes. Mycroft had a way with clothes that Sherlock studied with rapture.

If Sherrinford was home from Eton he would waltz around the house, stealing bits of food from the kitchen even though they weren't supposed to, and sometimes he would come into Sherlock's room to tease him. Sherlock didn't like Sherrinford very much. He was not very smart and was a huge berk. Mycroft said that he agreed, but they had to suffer through it otherwise Sherrinford would be home even _more _often.

Sherrinford would call Mycroft ugly and a bunch of other names that made no sense to Sherlock. Mycroft was not a queen, or a fairy, or a bundle of sticks. In turn, Sherlock and Mycroft would set traps for Sherrinford. Mycroft called them 'idiot traps'. They would trick Sherrinford into believing that one of the kitchen hands or caterers had called him down for what Mycroft called an 'adult hug'. He would turn very red when he said that so Sherlock liked to make him say it as often as possible. Then when Sherrinford would go down to the kitchen in just his shirt and pants, Sherlock would call Lizzie into the kitchen because he 'smelled something burning'. Then Mycroft and Sherlock would laugh at her screams and Sherrinford's embarrassment.

He always got them back.

That afternoon, Mycroft came to Sherlock's room with a plate of jam sandwiches and two mugs of weak tea. He made Sherlock eat and drink and then stuffed him into the suit. Sherlock still complained, because it was expected of him, but he didn't squirm and wriggle like he did with Lizzie and Mummy. Then Mycroft went to his own room to get ready.

Sherlock decided to wander around the house to try to alleviate his boredom, conjugating French verbs under his breath and humming bits and pieces of Sleeping Beauty, which Mummy had taken him to see. He hadn't enjoyed it at all, even though he knew that Mycroft had desperately wanted to see the ballet. He peeked into rooms he wasn't allowed into, and helped Mummy choose which pieces of jewelry to wear, and stole Sherrinford's cologne to spray around Father's messed-up papers. Another idiot trap, one Sherlock knew would make Mycroft laugh. He liked making Mycroft laugh, even better than he liked having things Mycroft didn't.

Some of Father's friends had arrived early. Sherlock had been sitting on the stairs, reciting his times-tables, and peered over the banister to see who it was. He hoped it was Mr Cohen, he had a funny accent and liked to give Sherlock candy. It wasn't Mr Cohen, Sherlock noted with disappointment. It was one of the men who worked with Father, and Sherlock had never heard his name. Father had on a very tight smile when he greeted the man, one of the smiles Sherlock and Mycroft and Mummy knew were fake, but no one else could figure it out. The man was wearing a very sharp suit, but his cufflinks were not real diamonds, so Sherlock decided the man was an idiot. Thinking he could fool Holmeses with false jewels, the nerve!

Father saw him peeking out over the banister and called him down, which he did, reluctantly. Placing a heavy hand on Sherlock's head, he introduced him to the man.

"Sherlock, this is Mr George Green. George, this is my youngest, Sherlock." The man, Mr Green, was looking at Sherlock oddly, but extended his hand nevertheless. That was weird. Hand shaking was for adults. Wary, Sherlock placed his own small, pale hand in the much larger one of Mr Green. Sherlock noted with disgust that the man had very sweaty hands and restrained the urge to wipe his hand on his trousers.

"Pleasure." Mr Green purred, showing off a lot of teeth. Sherlock felt very uncomfortable and fled to the library.

It was only a little after five, and the party wasn't supposed to start until seven, so Sherlock picked up the closest book and began to read. He made a note of the words he wasn't familiar with so he could ask Mycroft later.

Just as he was reading about Frodo meeting Tom Bombadil, the library door opened. Sherlock looked up from his book with a start. Mr Green closed the door quietly and turned to Sherlock with a strange smile. Sherlock closed the book and put it back on the table. Mr Green walked closer to him and then dropped into a crouch, just in front of Sherlock.

"Hello there, little man. You and I didn't have a chance to have a proper chat, earlier. I've been looking for you." Sherlock was confused.

"I'm sure Father would be much a more interesting person to talk to." He responded, unsure if his answer would be taken poorly. Mr Green just laughed.

"Not for the kind of conversation I want to have. Here, why don't I have a seat and you can sit in my lap." Sherlock did not want to sit in this man's lap, but he did slide off of the armchair he had been sitting in. Mr Green sat down and looked at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock regarded him anxiously.

"I'll give you a sweetie," Mr Green lilted. There was very little Sherlock wouldn't do for candy, since Mummy and Father only let him have any on special occasions. He clambered up onto Mr Green's lap. He felt the man relax behind him, one large hand coming to rest on Sherlock's exposed knee, thumb rubbing the underside of it. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably.

"You wallet's poking me," he complained. Mr Green laughed, his voice doing a strange hitch at Sherlock's movements. The hand on Sherlock's knee tightened. Sherlock squirmed, starting to feel a little bit like he was going to throw up, and the man behind him wheezed. He tried to get off of Mr Green's lap, but the man wouldn't let him go, and Sherlock started to panic. He could hear his name being called from outside the library, and it sounded like Mycroft, but Mr Green didn't appear to have heard anything. Sherlock let out a high pitched whine, wriggling and trying to escape Mr Green's surprisingly strong grip.

The door opened.

"Sherlock? Are you in here? I've been looking - " Mycroft froze. So did Mr Green. The man began to speak, trying to explain what exactly had been going on, but Mycroft ignored him. The twelve year old strode across the room and scooped Sherlock up, cradling the terrified five-year old in his arms. He hushed him and stroked his hair, his eyes never leaving the man in the armchair.

"Lizzie wanted to give you a once-over, go see her in the kitchens," he told his brother. Pressing a quick kiss to his sweaty temple, Mycroft put Sherlock down and shooed him towards the door. "Go on." Sherlock left, only looking over his shoulder once, and closed the door.

Mycroft stared at Green, his eyes cold, not hearing the pathetic bleating coming from the man's thin mouth. Mycroft walked closer to him, and leaned down so his own mouth was just centimeters from the man's ear.

"Listen carefully because I will only say this once," he hissed. "You come near my brother, or any of the other children who will be here in the next hour, and I will ruin you. Father will not want your business, or, indeed, anyone else. Your wife will leave you. Your _mistress _will leave you, and yes, your adulterous ways are plainly obvious to anyone who would care to look. You will be chased out of London with pitchforks and torches. Do you understand me, Mr Green?"

George Green licked his lips and tried to regain his authority. He was an adult, and he would not be threatened by a child, particularly not one as ugly as Mycroft.

"Do you really think you father would listen to you over me?" He sneered at Mycroft. The twelve year old quirked an eyebrow, a gesture he would soon perfect and use at every possible opportunity. Mycroft smiled dangerously, momentarily appearing almost beautiful.

"Father might not, perhaps," he admitted. His grin widened, "But Mummy certainly will." Green stopped breathing for a moment. Mycroft straightened up and gave the man a smile that was almost a perfect imitation of the one his father had given Green in the foyer of the house.

"There should be some aus d'oeuvres in the dining room if you're feeling peckish." Mycroft said, and with that, turned abruptly on his heel and left the library. He found Sherlock sitting in his room, fiddling absently with an army man. Before Mycroft could say anything, however, Sherlock leapt on him.

"He was going to give me candy!" He whined petulantly. Mycroft stared at Sherlock, astounded.

"He was going to do something _much _different, Sherlock, you're lucky I walked in when I did." Mycroft snapped in response. Sherlock did not like it when someone took such tones with him and threw his most intimidating glare at his older brother. While it wasn't _that_ intimidating, coupled with his next words, it was almost enough to send Mycroft into frustrated tears.

"You were just jealous that I was going to have something you weren't! Just like you were jealous when Mummy took me to the ballet and when Father let Sherrinford have some of that strange drink he keeps in his study! You're just jealous because everyone likes me best!" Mycroft just stared at Sherlock, face blank, and then he left the room quietly. Sherlock cried a little, still scared, and more than a little mad at himself for saying those things to the only relative whom he truly liked. He sniffed and snuffled, and eventually realized that Mycroft was not going to come back and wipe his tears. He cried a little harder and stumbled out of his room, calling plaintively for Mycroft.

He found the older boy in the room just off of Mummy's study, where the piano was kept. Mycroft was playing something, something slow and sad and Sherlock's cries turned to sobs. Mycroft ignored him. Sherlock knew that he had really screwed up then, because Mycroft _never _ignored him like that after their usual spats. He picked his way across the floor to the piano bench, where Mycroft was sitting.

"I'm sorry," he whimpered. Mycroft still ignored him. "I'm sorry I was mean." It was like Mycroft couldn't hear him. Sherlock's chin wibbled. He crawled up onto the bench and pulled at Mycroft's sleeve.

"Mycroft, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it." He pressed closer. "I'm sorry, I love you, I didn't mean it." He stuck his face against Mycroft's arm. "Mycroft?" He began to tug at Mycroft's sleeve, and cried out in surprise when the other boy pushed him. Sherlock fell off the bench and struck his elbow against the hard wooden floor. Mycroft was looking at him with angry eyes.

"Of course you are, Sherlock, you're _always _sorry. You never mean it and you always promise to never do it again, Sherlock, but that is such a _lie._" Sherlock recoiled, because if there's one thing every child hates, it's being called a liar. "You _always _do this to me. That man was going to _hurt you, _even more than hitting your elbow just did. He was going to hurt you in a way that would leave you in pain for _years. _And I stopped him. I made sure he wouldn't go near you ever again, or any child for that matter, but I don't care about any child, Sherlock, I care about _you." _Mycroft breathed deeply, his breath catching in his throat as he held back tears. Sherlock was too shocked to be mad about the pain in his arm. He had never seen Mycroft this upset and it scared him, scared him so badly he couldn't cry even if he wanted to.

Mycroft scrubbed at his face.

"I _love _you, you obnoxious little pest. It's why I put up with your nonsense, or did you think I actually enjoyed reading 'Treasure Island' to you five times? Do you think I like crawling around on my knees with you, pretending to be a pirate, when I have _important _things to do? But you don't under_stand _that. You don't understand what it means to sacrifice your own time and effort and energy for someone else because you're a baby, and you're selfish." Sherlock didn't like the way Mycroft was talking to him. He was not a baby, and he was not selfish, Mycroft was just being _emotional. _Sherlock wasn't sure what that meant but he knew that Father accused him of it all the time and it always made Mycroft stop talking and stand still.

"You're _emotional._" Sherlock snipped. Mycroft glowered at him.

"You are damned _right _I'm emotional." Sherlock's eyes widened. "I just walked in on some stranger molesting my brother, who doesn't even have the decency to thank me or at the very least pretend nothing happened." Mycroft sighed, a harsh, angry sound that made Sherlock wince. Mycroft sat back down on the piano bench.

"What you said, before, about me being jealous? You were right. You're always right, and that's a good thing, it's a gift. But, Sherlock, people don't always want to hear the truth because it hurts. I'm not jealous that you and Sherrinford get things that I don't." Mycroft hid his face in his hands and didn't continue.

"Is it because Sherrinford and I are pretty and you're ugly?" Sherlock tried, his tone cautious. Mycroft let out a laugh even uglier than he was.

"It's because you and Sherrinford are treated a certain way _because _you're pretty. You get smiles and affection, and Mummy and Father shower you both with attention, and I get shoved to the background so Mummy can pretend she doesn't have a homely child. You are listened to, albeit not seriously, and I am ignored."

"I listen to you," Sherlock whispered. Mycroft shook his head slowly.

"No you don't. You hear what you want to hear." He looked up and smiled tiredly at Sherlock. "You're five. I don't expect you to do any different." Sherlock scowled, as there was very little he hated more than being lumped in with the other idiots his age.

"I'm still mad at you." He piped up. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Of course you are." Sherlock grew angrier.

"I'm not going to sit with you! I'll sit with, with... with Sherrinford!" Mycroft laughed at that. Sherrinford was awful to sit next to in any situation, but at dinner parties he delighted in embarrassing his little brothers in any way possible, whether it was making snide comments about the amount of food on Mycroft's plate or asking Sherlock if he needed to go the bathroom in a very loud voice.

Mycroft's laughter only incensed Sherlock further.

"Or I'll make him sit next to _you! _He'll call you fat and a fairy and a queen and a _faggot _all night long and _then _you'll be sorry!" Mycroft looked at Sherlock with an oddly proud look on his face. It left as quickly as it came, however. He turned back to the piano, practicing his arpeggios.

"Do as you like." Sherlock seethed at Mycroft's indifferent tone. He stormed out of the piano room and up the stairs to Sherrinford's room, an idiot trap of a different sort whirling through his mind. He knocked on the door, his little fist making a surprisingly loud noise on the wood. Sherrinford opened the door and looked confused at first, but then he looked down. Taking in Sherlock's rumpled clothes and tearstained face, he surmised that the boy had had a fight with Mycroft.

"What do you want, sprog?" Sherlock drew in a deep breath, preparing to rant, but Sherrinford put a hand over his mouth.

"Short sentences." Sherlock huffed. Sherrinford removed his hand and looked expectantly at his youngest brother.

"You need to sit next to Mycroft tonight." Sherrinford wrinkled his nose. Sherlock knew that Sherrinford thought Mycroft was more than a little weird, judging by the amount of times the word 'queer' came up when the two were together.

"Ugh, why? What did he do this time?" The only time Sherlock asked Sherrinford to do anything it was to get revenge on Mycroft. Sherlock's eyes teared up.

"No tears!"

"He called me a liar and then said that people only listen to you because you're pretty." It was a sore subject with Sherrinford, the fact that his younger brothers were so much more intelligent than he was. Sherlock knew his oldest brother's reactions would be predictable, and was deeply pleased with the knowledge that Sherrinford would torment Mycroft all night for his supposed comments.

Dinner was interesting. Sherlock sat next to Mummy, letting her cut up his food even though she didn't do it the way Mycroft did. He was directly across the table from Mycroft, and he could tell by the other boy's lowered eyes and small portions of food that he was miserable. Sherrinford kept leaning over to whisper things in Mycroft's ear, but Sherlock couldn't tell what he was saying.

"Mycroft, darling, is that all you're going to eat?" Violet asked, her voice full of concern, and only some of it was faked. Mycroft's ears turned pink.

"I'm not very hungry tonight, Mummy." He replied, not sounding half as upset as he actually was. Violet's attention was already on something else, though, so she didn't notice.

Sherlock started to feel a little bad. They rarely got to eat the way they did on dinner party nights, and Sherrinford was making Mycroft not eat. Sherlock knew that Mycroft had a more refined palate for food, and that eating the delicacies they ate during dinner parties made him happy the way learning how fish breathed underwater made Sherlock happy. He knew that, even after Sherrinford left for Eton, Mycroft would only eat small portions, if he ate at all. Sherlock felt a small pit of guilt grow in his stomach at the thought.

After dessert, the men went up to Father's study to drink and talk about business, and the women went into Mummy's study to drink and talk about business and babies and husbands. Sherrinford went with the men. Mycroft fled into the piano room. Sherlock was swept up with the rest of the children and taken to the playroom.

Once Sherlock managed to sneak out from under the watchful gaze of a room full of nannies, he flew up the stairs and into the piano room.

One important thing about the piano room, is that it didn't just house the piano. Oh, no. It held composition books and metronomes, and, most importantly, Sherlock's violin.

A violin that had been smashed to pieces.

Sherlock stared at the broken bits of wood and string and felt like crying, again. He _knew _Mycroft had done this, he just _knew _it! But -

Mycroft hadn't been in the piano room since before dinner. The sheet music was in the same place as it had been before, the bench hadn't been moved, and he couldn't smell the cloying scent of the cologne Mycroft used on fancy occasions like dinner parties.

He _could, _however, see muddy footprints too small to belong to either of his brothers.

It turned out that the violin had been smashed by one of the Jones children, but Mycroft was blamed for it. No matter what Sherlock said, Mycroft was convinced Sherlock had framed him.

The first crack in their relationship, and it was all Sherlock's fault.

* * *

"I've deleted it," Sherlock lied. John gave him a suspicious look, before turning towards Mycroft. The elder Holmes pursed his lips.

"I imagine Sherlock was miffed that I refused to read 'Treasure Island' to him for a sixth time." Mycroft offered. John sighed, well aware that he wasn't going to get the truth from either Holmes.

"Who's the smarmy one?" Sherlock smirked and Mycroft wrinkled his nose.

"Our older brother, Sherrinford. He's an idiot." Mycroft said, brooking no arguments from Sherlock. Greg poked his head out from the kitchen.

"I don't know what all the funny looks are about, but if any of you want to eat then you'd better get over here."

The three men darted into the kitchen (well, John darted, Sherlock and Mycroft didn't dart so much as saunter vaguely towards) and sat down to eat whatever it was that Greg insisted was his Grand-mére's recipe. Sherlock sat across from Mycroft and watched, with an unnoticeable quiet pleasure, that his brother served himself a healthy amount of food, and ate it, too.

* * *

**AN: **Ew ew ew awful ending is awful. Anyway, this plot bunny jumped out at me from behind a bush, and I don't care what you say, Monty Python and Anya were right. Bunnies are terrifying.

This is in no way connected to the _Mycroft _series, or indeed any other of my series... es... that I've published. Please excuse any spelling errors, my spellcheck was being weird.


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